Hollow Ghost Hearts
by poisonnwine
Summary: After years of unanswered questions, and unsolved murder, the feds finally look into the Rosewood murder epidemic, bringing everyone together once again to grieve their losses. - It's been five years since she saw him last. For five years, she has left him wondering where they went wrong. Now, they meet again, both new people, both with hollow hearts. Canon after 5x05.


**a/n: **so, I know that I haven't updated Distastefully In Love in awhile ish. I'm working on it? I'm kind of going through a writer's block. Like, I wrote this about three weeks ago... ahah. So.

Basically I have two ideas for multi fics. This. And something else. I'm kind of lost on which one I should pursue. So, I thought I would post this, and see how you guys respond?

This story will be told in Spencer's POV and Toby's, and will also have chapters from the past... because the story from the past needs to be told too. Both of the multifics I have in mind are dark and sad btw. So. Yeah. Just thought I'd get a feel on what you guys think?

Also, it's canon after 5x05... k... lol. Which means I will be changing things... because I'm a horrible person. Like this is going to be _dark_.

* * *

Chapter One

April, 2017

The candles burn out with one blow. She's always been good at that. When she was little she never believed in wishes, or any other outlandish, fairytale superstitions. She did not master the art of blowing out all the candles for the wish, but the achievement—the success of blowing out each candle within one blow. Not that winning is anything of what matters anymore. It's just simply a trick she never outgrew.

"What'd you wish for?" her friend asks.

"She can't tell you, otherwise it won't come true!" the other shouts.

They both fall into laughter. Spencer puts forth a chuckle to entertain her friends. She didn't wish for anything truly, but if she says that she is just going to bring everyone down. She's trying to be more positive of late. It hasn't been working out _too _well for her, but she's _trying_ at least.

Her friends threw her a surprise party. She blatantly told them she didn't want a party a week ago, but apparently they think the only reason any person says that is to be polite. But Spencer wasn't being polite. She didn't say no because she didn't want her friends wasting their time on party preparations and money on supplies. She said no because she honestly didn't want a party.

She turns twenty three today. It's not some drastic change. She has been able to drink for two years, has been able to drive for nine, and has been an adult for five. Twenty three is nothing. There's no catchy Taylor Swift song about it. No dancing anthem that continues through all the decades to be attached to the number. It's just another year.

Spencer doesn't even eat her cake. Instead she just slips some pills into her mouth and drifts asleep. She knows it's rude. Her friends went to all the trouble to throw this party, and she just bails and goes to bed, but she can't bear staying up for it. Not only do parties increase her anxiety, but make her feel less alone than normal, which is strange considering. Normally she is in an apartment with two people. When a party is being held, there are at least fifty beings around her. It doesn't quite make sense. But if Spencer has learned anything throughout her life, it's that things don't make sense. Some things are just unexplainable. You can try to justify them with things like karma, and luck, and fate, but it's all just ways to give some reassurance. It's all just bull shit. It's a way to make it through the day.

When she wakes up the next morning, she decides to take a walk. There are still people from the night before lying around her house. They obviously got a little too drunk, unable to go home without causing some major, drunken tragedy on the road. She understands, but it still puts her on edge. There are too many faces she doesn't know.

The air is a little chilly for April. The whole year has been a little colder than usually if she is being honest. The weather tends to be temperamental in Pennsylvania. One day it will be freezing, and the next it will be disgustingly humid.

She lived in New York for some time. The humidity was much worse over there, if that is even possible. She doesn't know why she moved back to Pennsylvania sometimes. Specifically right now. Maybe it's because of how large New York is. How enormously gigantic it seems to be. There's too much going on. There are too many people. Too many crowds. Too many strangers.

But Pennsylvania hasn't exactly been kind to her either. Sometimes she has an urge to just ditch the whole entire continent. She doesn't have anything that binds her here anymore. Her friends hardly know her. They think that she's filled with ambition and confidence and dreams like them, but she's not. She's hollow. Everything she had has been sucked out. She's a lifeless being, wandering around, trying to discover something that will fill the void inside her even though it's inevitable to be hopeless.

As she walks down Trenton BLVD, passing a small newspaper stand, she spots something. It's something small—something in the corner of the black and white page, but it instantly traps her gaze. It strangles her down, forcing her to read the small print.

She mindlessly retrieves fifty cents from her purse, pushing the quartets into the machine with shaking hands. She picks up the article with her hesitant fingers, unraveling the newspaper to get the article she is looking for.

**ROSEWOOD, PENSYLVANNIA'S DEATH RATE ATTRACTS HIGHER AUTHORITIES**

_It all started in 2009 with a girl named Alison DiLaurentis. The fifteen year old girl had swept the nation with her disappearance. By early 2010, Alison DiLaurentis had been a known name among most family households. Millions were intrigued with the mystery of the missing girl. In late 2010, almost exactly a year after the fifteen year old had made her disappearance, she had been announced dead. Except she wasn't. Alison DiLaurentis' story had only begun. In early 2012, thought to be dead, the DiLarentis teen had stunned the nation with her homecoming. But the question of who had been in Alison's grave for the past two years still needed to be answered. Shortly after Alison's reappearance, the public was given a name. Bethany Young. A poor, young girl who had escaped from the nearby mental institution that no longer provides service, understandably. But it wasn't long before Alison was once again pronounced dead—this time staying dead._

_Within the time frame of two years (2010-2012) a total of thirteen murders had ensued in the small town. Only a couple being solved. The federal agency is determined to finally put closure to these mysterious cases. Their families and friends certainly deserve it, and by doing so, the little town of Rosewood will hopefully be a safer place to start a family._

_Since the spur between 2010 and 2012, there has been a rise in crime and violence. Rosewood is suddenly becoming a town where no one wants to step foot in, let alone live. But is it possible to go back in time and fix the mistakes from over five years prior? Will solving the questions from over five years ago really solve anything? I guess we'll just have to wait and see._

_More details to come._

Spencer stands agape. Unsure how to process the news. She feels like she is on the verge of a panic attack. She tries to even her breaths, but the harder she tries, the worst it gets. She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling hot tears burn the flesh of her cheekbones. She grabs her chest, heaving. She shakily slides her hand into her coat pocket, grabbing the bottle of anti-anxiety pills. But her hands are too shaky to twist the knob open. She breaks the lid off by hitting it against the newspaper stand, throwing back two—three pills.

She focuses on her breathing until it revisits normalcy. She is _fine_. She'll be _fine_.

She rips out the article from the newspaper and shoves it into her trench coat pocket. She knows the article will be of no good use to her, but she can't stop herself from keeping it. She needs to know this isn't some bizarre dream. She needs to know this is real, and have the article as evidence.

It's not like she's grown to be that crazy, or anything. She doesn't imagine things up. But sometimes she feels like she is close to that point.

She thought things would have been better once she went off to college, left everything behind, but instead, the emotional debris of her past just clung to her back with a harder grip. Now, here she is five years later, needing anti-anxiety pills to get her down the sidewalk.

At first the doctors just diagnosed her with PTSD, which was none to the least surprising to the brunette. Her whole high school experience had been a traumatic episode. But the diagnosis of her mental unfitness only kept increasing in length. Soon she had an entire pill collection locked away in her drawer.

She thinks the pills do help, but sometimes she wonders if she would have just been better off not taking them at all. She feels like what happened with Aderall is happening once again. She can't get through the day without popping three, or four pills. Her mind literally cannot handle the world without the chemical alterations. But she knows if she mentions this to her doctor, he'll start narrowing her prescription orders to hardly anything, and she honestly is not equipped to handle that.

Especially with her past catching up to her.

Part of her knows that her past slivering its way back into her life again is just going to birth new wombs to heal, but another part of her—a stronger part of her that she didn't even know still existed—is stimulated by the news. There have been so many deaths in Rosewood, so many going unjustified. So many still open and lost among the world.

Just knowing what happened. _What really happened. _It seems like a dream. A dream that she will not let herself believe is coming true until she sees progression. She refuses to indulge herself in false hope like she did so many years ago.

A lot of witnesses are dead now. A lot of the people who killed the murder victims of the past are now dead themselves. The case was impossible to begin with, but waiting five years to reopen it just seems like a waste of time. But there's still this tiny hope inside her. This small, very quiet hope that comes from an ignorant, loose part of her mind. This time it will be the FBI. It will be the best detectives. The best _everything. _They are bringing in the feds. It's different this time.

A musical ringing wakes her from her deep thought. She pulls her phone out of her purse, gaping at the name on the caller ID. She hasn't spoken to the caller in about four months.

"Hello," she answers.

"Hey. Happy birthday," the person from the other end states.

"_Oh_," she's taken back. She honestly forgot. With all this new information flooding her brain, she had completely lost track of the day and its meaning. "Oh, yeah, thanks, Emily." She wonders if the woman saw the news article. It seems unlikely since she lives all the way in Colorado.

"Don't tell me I mixed the dates up? It _is _today right? Oh God, I'm so sorry—I just, I—,"

"No," Spencer interrupts her with a firmer voice than she had anticipated. She smiles, "no," her voice softens. "It's today—I just—I had a dull moment."

She can hear Emily relax, "Spencer Hastings having a dull moment? Didn't think that was possible."

Spencer once would have agreed to this. But now she just feels ashamed. That sharp girl she once was is so far gone that even best detective would not be able to find her. But she isn't going to say that to Emily. Instead she just says, "yeah," with a more or less forced chuckle.

"What are you doing today?"

Spencer thinks. She is supposed to meet up with her boyfriend and some friends at the local pub. But honestly she was thinking of ditching.

"I might get dinner later with some people…"

"Well, that means you're free for lunch then, right?"

"I—sure," she answers with uncertainty. "…in Colorado?" she attempts to make a joke. But it sounds more serious than she planned.

"I'm in Phili. That's where you live now, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay, great then. Um, if I give you my hotel, you'll be able to find me, right?"

"Probably. If not, I think my handy dandy GPS will be able to help me out."

She hears Emily smile through the phone, her voice lighter now, "all right. Does one work for you?" she requests.

Spencer agrees to the time before Emily gives her the hotel. Spencer knows _exactly _where it is, no GPS necessary. In two hours she would be sitting across Emily Fields. It almost seems surreal. The last time she saw her was over a year ago.

…

She sits in front of her old swimmer, trying to remember the last time she saw her. She thinks it was at this art benefit—one the Montgomery family was having in honor of their daughter. Hanna was there too. As was Ezra Fitz, and a couple others she had once known in her high school years. She spent most of her time with Jason, whom had gone reluctantly, telling her that he and Aria had hardly been friends for more than two months at most. But he eventually caved, and went with her.

She talked to Emily some, and Hanna, too. But there were too many people, and Spencer was starting to feel overwhelmed, so she left.

That actually may have been the last time she talked to Hanna.

"Have you talked to Hanna recently?" Spencer asks after the place their drink orders.

Emily shakes her head, which somewhat makes Spencer feel good. At least Hanna's not just secluding one of them. "It's probably been about nine months." She furrows her eyebrows a little as she thinks back. "I talked to her sometime last summer."

Spencer just nods. She has tried to reach Hanna, but every time she tries, she gets greeted with a voicemail. It gets discouraging after a while. It wasn't always like this. Hanna wasn't always incapable of reaching, and a lunch date with Emily would not be referred to as miraculous. They used to close. Even after high school.

"Have you heard about…" she prompts.

Emily nods, "yeah. That's actually why I'm back," she confesses.

Spencer shortly wonders on how long this information has been open to the public.

"They called me."

"Who?"

"The detectives on the case," Emily puts forth hurriedly; _anxiously_. "They wanted to talk to me about Nate, or Linden, I mean...and a lot of other stuff, along with that. But they just want to verify that what happened actually happened, and I don't know. I'm supposed to go into questioning on Monday. They say that I'm probably going to be pulled in a couple more times…as a witness, and everything. So, I'm planning on staying for awhile…but I refuse to stay in Rosewood. So, I don't know. I'm going to figure it out, but right now I'm just going to be staying at a hotel. They told me the feds would be willing to pay if I cooperate." She stops, as if debating her next words. "Have they called you yet?"

"I just found out today…through a Philli newspaper."

"They probably will. But… I mean, you—you aren't…"

Spencer knows what she is trying to say, and she stops her before she can say the rest. "Yeah, probably."

Emily murdered someone—one of the thirteen murders in Rosewood had been attributed because of her. Not that it's her fault. It was self defense. It was her or him in that moment. But she knows it still haunts the woman. Just like certain things still haunt Spencer.

"Anyways, I got some time off work. The school year's almost over anyways, and the season doesn't start till the fall."

Emily's a swimming coach at some high school in Colorado. She couldn't pursue her dream in professional swimming, but she _can _help others with their ambitions.

"Maybe you should call Toby, and warn him."

Her entire body stiffens up at the word. Her toes curl. Her open hands become fists. Her shoulders twitch backward. She feels like someone has put locks on her limbs, packing them together in uncomfortable positions to fit together into some tiny, invisible box.

She hasn't heard his name in so long. Mostly because no one even knows he exists in the world she lives in now. They know about –A and Alison (honestly how could they not?), and even Emily and Hanna, but she never once brought up Toby to them. To _anyone. _

When asked if she has ever been in love, she says yes, but she doesn't get specific. She has been in love multiple times, but it's the _staying_ in love that she has trouble with. Falling in love with someone isn't hard. It's not _easy_, but it's not _hard. _But she always finds herself, after a couple months or so, growing tired of the company. Sometimes she questions if it had ever been love at all.

"Wh—why?"

"I just, I thought—I know you don't talk anymore, but. They're going to call him, and I think it'd be good if he knew about it. Just in case he hasn't seen the news."

"I'm sure he has," Spencer argues, a roughness in her voice. But that's pretty much a lie. She doesn't even know where he lives now. She hasn't talked him since she left Rosewood. "I don't even know if I have his number anymore."

"I have it."

"Then why don't you tell him? I haven't talked to him for almost five years now."

Emily sighs, giving her a look of impatience and disapproval.

She's a lot weaker than she used to be. She used to be able to bend, but now she just breaks. "Fine. Give me his number."

She used to be able to hold herself; to hold her stance. But she's been weathered down over the years. The last five years have been filled with more of loneliness and rejection than of happiness and security, like she had poorly anticipated. She had thought the Post –A Life would be better. She thought it would be a change. A better, easier life. But it's not like that. It's like she's living in a post warzone, dust in her lungs and fear in the air.

She had really tried to stay close with Hanna and Emily, but they didn't seem to want that. They pushed her away. Maybe it was how they needed to live—without her, without each other. Maybe it was their only way of healing, but it felt _wrong. _They did the exact same thing when Alison disappeared. Aria had been in Iceland, but Emily and Hanna had been right next door. Yet, they recoiled from each other. Spencer thought history would refrain from repeating itself, but she was wrong. Hopelessly wrong.

So, maybe that's why she so easily said yes to the request. She wants to please Emily. She wants to go back to how it was, even though they all know it's impossible. But she yearns for the chance. She needs her friends. She needs these people who understand her, but they seem to not need her as much.

Not that they are in any better shape than her. Maybe Emily. But Hanna is a completely different story.

"I'll text it to you."

And that's that. Spencer can't take back the promise now. She's going to have to call Toby, or else her straining relationship with Emily will only further back into the fire.

When she looks over the text, she realizes she didn't really need it at all. It's the same number from before. And although she hasn't called it in almost five years, she still remembers the order of numbers like it is her own. She tries to justify this with her photogenic memory—she remembers all kinds of stuff (at least she used to.)But she knows it's more than that.

Her brain has basically turned to mush. She is losing it. She shouldn't remember numbers from five years ago, when she can't even remember the addresses of her friends' houses that she has heard millions of times before. She shouldn't remember, but she does.

Emily gives her a gift, which just adds on to the list of things she did not expect from today. It is a picture frame of the four of them—Hanna, Emily, Spencer, Aria. It brings a small, nostalgic smile to her lips. She never thought she would miss her high school days, but sometimes she does. Sometimes she wonders if she rather live those days than the days she faces now. She knows she's crazy for thinking that way. Their lives were beyond horrible back then, but at least she had her friends. At least she had Toby.

The rest of the day proceeds in an ambient haze. She is too distracted by her past to alert her attention to the present. Her mind lives in the past while her physical being resides in the future.

She goes to the pub to meet her friends, but even when she's there, it's like she's not. She's in another universe, a universe so diverse that it would be impossible for her friends to understand. They sense this, and ask what's wrong after awhile, but Spencer just shakes her head. She tells them she is fine.

She sneaks outside the pub a little while into her celebration, needing a break from all the commotion and noise.

The bitter temperature prickles against her goose bumped covered skin. She pulls her trench coat more around her, but still feels cold. She is always so cold. She feels like she has been cold since she pushed Toby out of her life.

She doesn't let herself think about him much. Mostly because it's been five years, and it makes her feel disgustingly pathetic because she still misses him. Time heals, but it also progressives yearning and longing. She knew she would miss him. Whenever they were separated, whether it be two days or two weeks, she missed him like crazy. She felt an entire part of her mind just shut down without his presence. It sounds silly, but it felt that way.

Sometimes she convinces herself that he's okay. That he somehow got over all of the shit that had happened to him, and prevailed into this happy, joyous human being who had conquered their demons, and set sail to the world of new exploration.

She knows it's farfetched but it is _possible. _And it's why she never asks Emily about him. She knows they sometimes talk, whether it be email or text. She knows Emily would know if he was miserable, or at least working towards happiness. But she doesn't want the answer. Because if she has the answer, if she knows the truth, then her outrageous theory would be put down; proven to be faulty.

She's crazy like this now.

But more times than not, she worries that he is in bad of shape as her, which spirals her into some form of craziness that takes her forever to crawl out of.

That's why she doesn't let herself think of him much. Nothing good ever comes out of thinking about him. It just brings up bad memories. And she hates that. She hates that he is attached to so many of her haunting memories when he is so wonderful and lovely.

It's not like they have never had a good moment. They had plenty. They only dated for a year and half, but her relationship with Toby still remains as the longest relationship she has ever had. The closest anyone ever got was seven months. Her current boyfriend is at three and she is honestly already getting sick of him. It all starts with one tiny fault, and then suddenly everything they do irritates her.

And maybe that's why she knows Emily is right. She owes it to Toby. Emily didn't say it. But with the look she gave her, she didn't have to. Spencer may have not said a word to the man in almost five years, but at one point, they had been everything to each other.

She dials the numbers apprehensively, feeling the need to go to the store and drop a few dollars on a box of cigarettes. She had quit about a year and half ago, but every now and then she has a few slips.

But instead she just waits. She waits on the impending call, feeling her heartbeat vibrate through her whole entire body.

Then she hears his voice, and it stops. It just completely stops. "Hi," she voices, almost shyly. "It's Spencer."

"I—Yeah, I know."

The makes her heartbeat even more irregular. It flutters in her chest, seemingly going haywire. He knows her number, or voice, or maybe he just still has her number saved. Either one. "Oh," she says lamely.

"I—um, hi." He sounds confused, and she doesn't blame him. His ex-girlfriend whom he hasn't spoken to in five years is greeting him over the phone at eleven o'clock at night, acting like this is the norm. "I—hey," he repeats his greeting.

"Hi." She smiles a little bit. It's just hearing his voice after all these years; it feels therapeutic almost. It feels like she's coming home.

She knows making analogies like that is definitely not something she should be doing, but it's like a bearing truth that forces to be known.

"Look, um," she starts, walking down the sidewalk, watching as her breath becomes a cloud in the cool, night air. "I'm—I'm calling to tell you something."

"Um, all right."

"Well, you may actually have heard already, but if you haven't…"

"_Oh."_

And from that one syllable, that tiny, two letter word, she knows he already knows.

"Yeah, I—yeah, the Rosewood thing. It's crazy." He sounds uninterested. She wonders how he feels about it. She almost wants to ask, but she knows that she can't. It's been five years. Five years have passed without them facing the world as a couple, or even acquaintances. She doesn't have a right to ask anything of what he is feeling.

"Yeah," she agrees, softly. "It is."

"Thanks, though."

He sounds uncommitted. It doesn't sound genuine. It sounds like when you're at a restaurant and the waiter offers the evening special, but you already know what you want, so you basically just ignore him and wait for his speech to discontinue.

"Yeah, I just—I thought I'd warn you. In case they call you as a witness."

"Yeah," he sighs a little. But it's a masked sigh. One that Spencer had once dissected and learned all about. But she can't inspect his thoughts now. She is no position to. She doesn't even know _this _Toby. She's changed over the last five years drastically, and there is no doubt in her mind that Toby has altered his identity too.

"I hope they do. There's too much injustice in the world. Too many things left unsolved…"

For a minute she thinks that his words hold deeper meaning, that they are referring to their break up along with all the unsolved crime in Rosewood, but she tells herself she is just being paranoid, or guilty, or both.

"Right. I know what you mean."

If her suspicions are right, then she probably just sounds like the biggest hypocrite in the world.

"Spencer?" her current boyfriend's voice interrupts her ambiguous dialogue with her ex-boyfriend.

She feels guilty even though she's done nothing wrong. She grits her teeth together. "Look, um, I have to go."

"Okay."

"All right…well, um… maybe we can talk again…sometime."

She doesn't even know _why _she says it. Maybe out of guilt. Maybe out of her longing for him that is finally just bursting with desperation. Maybe the words aren't even truthful. Maybe she is just saying them to make the end of the call less awkward. She honestly doesn't even know at this point. It's too late. Too much has happened today; her mind's chaotic mess, begging for the organization skills that she can no longer provide.

"Yeah," he agrees quietly. "Happy birthday, by the way," he offers, a sort of lightness entering his voice at the words. She hadn't realized how monotonic he had been speaking till then. It sends a shiver through her.

But the sentence also makes her heart swell. A quiet smile ripples out on her face. "Thanks," she replies, suddenly feeling a wave of emotion run over her. She doesn't want to stop talking. She doesn't want this call to end; even though she is the one who had chose to disclose the conversation. It's almost a perfect parallel to the end of their relationship. "Goodnight, Toby."

"You too, Spencer."

And then the call ends, and she is left alone with her boyfriend standing behind her, giving her a worried stare that she sees way too much of. She used to find it endearing, but now it's just annoying.

"Who was that?"

"An old friend," she answers, almost too easily.

He gives her a crooked smile before stumbling forward. It's no question that he is drunk. Spencer watched all her friends devour every alcoholic beverage they could get their greedy hands on. Spencer on the other hand passed.

"How 'bout you and I get outta this place?" he slurs, his hands slivering around her waist in a tight grip. She leans away from him, feeling his hot, whiskey scented breath intruding on her neck.

"Okay. I'll drop you off at your place, and then I'll go to mine."

He smirks, chuckling. "No, not what I meant, babe," he holds her tighter. He goes for her neck, planting aggressive kisses against the open space. She slides her hands between them, trying to push him off of her. "Stop. You're drunk," she hisses.

He doesn't listen to her. "Come on. You're so tense these days. So uptight, my girl is."

"I'm not your girl," she growls in a low, impatient voice. "Get off me Grant. I'm serious."

"God damn, Spencer," he begins to laugh, stepping away from her. "Chill out, aright? I'm your boyfriend, I'm just doing what boyfriends do."

She glowers at him before putting forth a slight eye roll. "I'm going home."

He grabs her wrist before she turns around. He gives her a pleading look, "come on. I never gave you your present yet."

"You got me a scarf."

"Yeah, but the real present awaits in the bedroom," he winks.

"Well, I'm declining your offer. Try not to get hit by a car or something."

This time she does a complete 180 eye roll, and this time he doesn't stop her. She wonders briefly if he'll cheat on her tonight. It doesn't seem unlikely. Usually he's not such an asshole, but he's drunk. He is always horrendous when he is intoxicated. She despises him when he's like this. It's part of the reason their relationship is in ruins at this point. She wants to break up with him, but every time she is about to do it, she puts it off. Maybe she's just afraid of being alone. She's pretty sure that's it.

She goes home, takes some sleeping pills, and eventually goes under. Happy birthday to her.


End file.
